The Thirteenth Coffin (15 page)

He died quietly in the end, his body surrounded by the fish he had enjoyed for so many years. They, for their part, just ignored him.

*

Lapslie called for a team briefing at six o’clock the following day, twenty-seven hours after Stowell had been
released. He would have called it earlier, but that was the first moment he could be sure that Rouse was going to approve a permanent tail on Stowell. And since that would pull two men out of his squad and essentially change the dynamics of how the investigation was handled, it was important he got that information first. So, two men out of his planned squad of twenty; but eighteen should be more than enough to handle the rest of the investigation, even with such a disparate collection of possible victims with no apparent links between them.

The main task for the team would be to try and determine the names of the other victims, the ones represented by the dolls that had been damaged and left in their coffins. Lapslie knew that each of them represented a person, and if he was to have any chance at all of saving the final two he needed to identify the nine remaining dolls. Lapslie held up one hand to quell a residual murmur in the squad room.

‘Now as most of you are already aware, our main suspect in Leslie Petersen’s murder, Mike Stowell, was released yesterday. We’ve got approval to put a permanent tail on him from first thing tomorrow, so that duty falls to Ken Barrett and Pete Kempsey.’ Lapslie nodded towards the detectives before lifting his eyes. ‘As for the
rest of you, your task of tracking down the remaining victims – some past, some still to come – won’t be so easy. Unlike Leslie Petersen, none of them were shot by a sniper, so they won’t have been front-page news. So we’re looking for less overt murders, or in some cases even accidents, that wouldn’t necessarily have come to our attention. At least, not linked to this case.’

He called the detectives forward in groups of two, assigning each pair a doll with instructions to concentrate on the means of death – assuming it was mirrored by the damage inflicted on the dolls – and reasserting that they should look at accidents as well as unsolved murders. Time wasn’t on his side, and the problem was that there was no evidence that the deaths were only confined to the Essex area. They could cover the whole of the UK. He instructed each pair of detectives to go back at least twenty years. He knew it was a long time, but as he had no idea how long the killer had been active he had to draw a cut-off line somewhere, and he wanted to put it back as far as was practicable. Each pair of detectives was issued with a folder containing photographs and as much information as they had – which made them very thin folders.

At the end of the briefing, Lapslie said a few words to
hopefully fire up the assembly. ‘Right: it’s up to you now. I feel pretty sure that the lives of at least two more victims are in your hands. If we can discover the real identities of any of these dolls, then maybe we can start making links. If we can do that then we will, with luck, have our motive, and once we have that, well, the rest, as they say, will be child’s play. Any questions?’

The room remained silent. Bradbury then stood.

‘If there are any now or in the future, can you filter them through me, or email the boss with them?’

A general nod of understanding circled the room. Lapslie finished with: ‘Remember, we don’t have long. As long as none of you take the piss, I’ll sign any overtime claims you have. Good luck and please remember that time is not our friend.’

As the teams filed out, Lapslie took Bradbury to one side. He’d woken early again that morning, suddenly hit with a fresh thought; something of a revelation as he considered it more deeply. Something that could change the whole nature of the investigation. And as the day progressed, he’d further developed that chain of thought.

‘You know what I mentioned about the sniper murder being markedly different to the other victims. I think it
goes far deeper than that. I think we may have been looking at the investigation the wrong way round.’

‘In what way?’

‘The main clue is when the sniper killing took place. When was that in terms of our investigation?’

It took a second for Bradbury to latch on to his chain of thought. ‘Uh, just after we discovered the bunker and the dolls.’

‘Exactly. Until that moment there was no set investigation, because the other victims had been dispensed of in such a way that they fell under our radar. Murders that had gone unnoticed, or accidents. Then suddenly comes an overt murder that couldn’t fail to come to our attention, and lo and behold the first thing that comes to light is a past jilted boyfriend who has previous sniper training.’

Bradbury’s brow knitted. ‘You think it was some sort of set-up. Stowell might have been put in the frame?’

‘Could well be the case. The MO with Stowell fits almost too conveniently, and why make that murder so overt and in our face when the others had been so discreet? Then knowing that Stowell was on leave in the UK, all that would have been needed was something to put him in the area at the time.’

This time it took Bradbury a second longer to follow the thread. ‘You think that our killer might have sent Stowell the email posing as his friend?’

‘I do. Certainly if he’d gone to the trouble of setting up the sniper shooting, that would have been the final component required.’

Bradbury nodded slowly. ‘Unless it was Stowell himself, so that he had a cover for being in the area at the time.’

‘Yes, we can’t completely discount Stowell. But that would still mean coming up with rational explanations for the other victims – why the stark contrast with their deaths?’ Lapslie took a fresh breath. ‘Unless of course Stowell had an accomplice, and
they
link to those other victims.’

‘Is that a realistic possibility?’

‘Certainly one worth exploring. We already have the suggestion that the sniper shot was so complex that an accomplice might have been required to measure wind speed and direction.’ He’d know more, he supposed, once Parr’s team had re-enacted the shot fired. ‘But if Stowell does have an accomplice, then putting a tail on him isn’t necessarily going to stop further murders.’

Bradbury nodded thoughtfully. ‘And what set this in motion, you think, was our involvement in the investigation?’

‘Yes. Though I suspect our killer expected that to occur at some stage. I can’t help thinking that the proximity of the bunker to that lavender field wasn’t a complete accident.’

Bradbury was incredulous. ‘You think the killer might know you?’

‘Certainly know
of
me and that I have synaesthesia. Or simply that he’s very thorough with researching backgrounds. Look at the trouble he’d have gone to delving into Stowell’s and Leslie Petersen’s background in order to set this up right.’

Bradbury sighed. ‘Not only thorough, but quite a level of ingenuity too.’

‘Yes. Certainly someone we shouldn’t underestimate.’ Lapslie was thoughtful for a second. ‘And talking about ingenuity, there’s something else I’d like you to look at. Find out if Leslie Petersen had been involved in any major accidents over the last, oh, say, a year, that might have required a blood transfusion. Failing that, see if she gave blood on a regular basis, and, if so, where.’

Bradbury quickly saw his reasoning. ‘Our killer might
have got her blood from the blood bank. It would certainly explain a lot.’

‘That’s what I thought.’

‘Okay, sir, I’ll have the answers by tomorrow.’

As Bradbury turned to leave, one of the team phones started to ring. Bradbury stopped and made her way back to answer it. ‘Inquiry Team – DS Bradbury speaking.’ A pause, then she said, ‘He’s here with me. I can pass on a message, if you like.’

Lapslie waited while she listened intently to whatever was being said.

‘Okay,’ she said eventually, ‘I understand. Tell her thanks for letting me know. I’ll convey the message. Okay, thanks again.’

She put the phone down and looked across at Lapslie. ‘That was Doctor Catherall. The blood on the doll’s dress is an exact DNA match for Leslie Petersen.’

*

The trip next day to Hereford was a long one, pretty much crossing the whole of England, east to west, skirting around London, Oxford and Cheltenham, so he decided to take Bradbury along with him. She was good at clearing the way, making sure that he wasn’t distracted by his neurological condition any more than
was necessary. And besides, one of the perks of being a detective chief inspector was that he could be driven around by the junior ranks whenever he wanted.

They didn’t speak much for the first twenty miles.

‘By the way,’ Lapslie said eventually, ‘any news on Leslie Petersen?’

‘Yes: she did give blood, and was a regular donor. Funnily enough, it was at the hall of the church where she was shot. That might be where our clever killer got her blood from.’

‘He would have had to have some inside knowledge, wouldn’t he?’

Bradbury shook her head. ‘Not necessarily, sir. He could have followed her. Stolen the blood after it was taken. It’s not guarded like gold bullion – just stored in an ambulance in a cold box. All he had to do was keep it cold after that. Just look on Google: there’s bound to be a page telling you how to store blood.’

Lapslie nodded. ‘I can’t see how else he could have done it.’

‘Shall I stick a couple of lads on it? See if they can turn anything up?’

Lapslie shook his head. ‘Leave it for now. It’s a loose end we can tie up later.’

Lapslie was about to ask another question when Bradbury’s mobile rang. She tapped the side of her ear, where a Bluetooth receiver sat like a high-tech earring.

‘Bradbury,’ she said, and then paused to listen. ‘Really? That’s a good start, I think . . . You say you couldn’t trace any other nurses that fit the bill . . .? Okay, well, that sounds hopeful . . . As long as you’re sure . . . I’m sure you are . . . Hang on, I need to make a note of that.’

Lapslie pulled his notebook and a pen from his jacket pocket, and signalled his readiness. Bradbury nodded her appreciation.

‘Okay, go ahead. Jane Ann Summers, when was she murdered? First of July 2007. Where? 176 Rutland Road, Chylesmore, Coventry. Okay, got that. Have you got a time and method? Afternoon, and strangled. Okay, we need a full report on the boss’s desk by the time we get back.’

Before Bradbury had time to finish the call, Lapslie cut in. ‘Who was the senior investigating officer?’

‘Who was in charge of the inquiry?’ She flicked a glance at Lapslie. ‘Chief Inspector Alan Day, and he’s retired . . . Yes, and you . . . Goodbye.’

She put the phone down and turned to Lapslie. ‘That was PC Parkin. He and Pearce think they’ve discovered who the first victim was.’

‘So I heard.’

‘The senior investigating officer was Chief Inspector . . .’ she frowned, trying to remember.

‘ “Arfur” Day.’

Bradbury shook her head. ‘No, sir, not Arthur: Alan. Chief Inspector Alan Day.’

‘I know. We used to call him “Arfur”.’

Bradbury looked confused.

‘ “Arfur” Day, as in “half-a-day”. That’s all you could ever get out of him. Always playing golf; got his handicap down to eight on the force’s time. Either that or at his allotment. He had a shed there that he used to call his office.’

Bradbury just looked at Lapslie blankly.

‘He was still a good detective,’ Lapslie added. ‘Get hold of him when we stop for coffee and a slash, which had better be soon. It sounds like I need to have a chat with him.’

*

He could never have realized when he started how difficult it was going to be to kill the Major. He’d never known a more careful man. The Major had left the Army only a couple of years before, as part of the ongoing round of voluntary Army redundancies aimed to reduce military spending, and until his
retirement he had been serving with the Intelligence Corps in Northern Ireland. Given the amount of security that always surrounded serving officers, getting to the man was impossible, and that’s why he had left him until now.

As a result of his work in Northern Ireland, the Major was very careful. He never used the same route when visiting somewhere on a regular basis, he always checked beneath his car before he drove off, even if it had only been parked in a supermarket car park for five minutes, and he was always on the watch for faces he recognized as having seen before in a different context.

On one occasion he was convinced that the Major had spotted him. They had been in the Major’s local high street. He had been idling along, looking in shop windows, catching reflected glimpses of the Major every minute or so, when a pair of women walked past. They were having an animated conversation, but as they passed him the only words he heard were ‘. . . Be careful: he’s watching you!’ The words were a clear warning from a higher power, and he started to walk away rapidly. He risked a quick glance over his shoulder, and indeed the Major was looking in his direction. That had been a close call. Had he not been on a mission from God, or at least approved by God, then he might have failed right then. It just proved to him that although God endorsed his plans, it was up to him to make sure
he got the details right. God, after all, helps those who help themselves.

After that he changed his car every time he followed the Major, and wore an array of disguises, pulled together from a number of charity shops. Getting close enough to kill him was going to be harder than all the others combined. He supposed he could have shot him, just like the bride, but he didn’t want two similar murders so close together. Lapslie was no fool, and he might start making the connections that would eventually give him the leads he needed. No, it had to be another accident.

His break came when he noticed the Major buying camping equipment. The man was obviously considering a holiday, but where and when? If it was too far there would be no chance of following: he couldn’t afford to go missing from work for too long without things being said. He would have to wait.

Fortunately the normally careful Major made a mistake. He followed the Major’s highly visible red open-topped sports car to a small cottage, miles from any town, and watched as he was greeted at the front door by an attractive blonde in her late twenties. They kissed in a manner that showed they were more than just friends. She had to be his mistress, because Major John Alexander Thomas was married. After that he changed tactics. He realized that the key to getting to the Major
was her, the mistress. There was no point in following the Major any further. Besides, it would be safer, because the mistress wouldn’t be quite so careful.